The day of the Presidential Fitness Test, we ninth graders are asked to grab hold of the thick rope in the middle of the gym floor and shimmy up to the red tape overhead, using arms and legs.
All tagged high school
The day of the Presidential Fitness Test, we ninth graders are asked to grab hold of the thick rope in the middle of the gym floor and shimmy up to the red tape overhead, using arms and legs.
I’m in my final year of high school and recently announced plans to go to art school, a life-long dream.
An orange herd of elbows, knees and ponytails stampedes down the court. On the cusp of womanhood, their bodies are a myriad of developmental stages.
A boy dressed as a robot is sitting next to a fairy.
I saw the tiny bright pink pill slide from the pocket of his khaki pants and onto his seat, then drop to the floor next to his desk.
Across the room, the most gorgeous and popular boy in school — tall, blonde, athletic and artsy. A damn Norse god come to life.
I always had to try something once. Just to see.
Charcoal sticks scuffed as he ambled, then stopped near my elbow. “You have lovely lips.” The scuffing slowed.
Education courses didn’t prepare me for the Freshman Who Still Hasn’t Discovered Deodorant.
I've had a crush on Crystal forever, and now here I am, in front of everyone, expected to stab a flower into her dress, millimeters from her—you know.
Penelope is a rat. She lives in my daughter's room and likes to sit on my shoulder and snuffle in my ear.
We talked about my week at school or a movie we planned to see. Suddenly my mom would say “There’s your husband!”